the rest. And then I’m going to find more.”
“My money? The money Eve—?” Knox says, though he can’t finish the sentence, can’t hear himself say it.
“If we find the money—
when
we find the money—we will find Evelyn Ritter along with it,” Grace says imperiously.
Dulwich hunches his shoulders. “It was a bum deal.”
“It was my deal. Is my deal.”
“What are friends for?”
Grace explains, “It was the change. The fifty-four cents. It’s all in the details. We’re having fun, John. Don’t spoil our fun.”
“And don’t talk to me about returning favors,” says the man whose life Knox saved—
twice
.
“Forty-seven thousand?”
“I do not have the money, but I know where to find it. I can determine how it got there—that is the key. Getting it back . . . That is not of primary importance at the moment. First, we find it. We find it all.”
“Don’t look so surprised,” Dulwich says.
But Knox is surprised. Flattered. Impressed. Guilt-ridden that they’ve taken the time to pursue his loss when it has nothing to do with Rutherford Risk.
“Does Primer know?” Knox asks.
“Hardly,” says Dulwich.
“But you’re on his payroll. His clock.” He looks over at Grace. “His gear.”
“Field testing the gear is critical,” she says.
“There are more than eight hours in a day,” says Dulwich.
The comment is laughable, though Knox doesn’t laugh. Dulwich lives his job—fourteen-to-eighteen-hour days. He doesn’t have time to tie his own shoes—he wears Top-Siders.
“Thank you.” Knox wishes he’d saved some of the Scotch. He thinks about suggesting a trip to the hotel bar, drinks on him, but knows that’s absurd. The three of them can’t be seen together.
“Thank us when you have her head on a stick,” Dulwich says.
“And the funds back in your account,” Grace says, still rocking.
She looks like a scared little girl. Knox considers reaching out to comfort her, but the timing is wrong; she’ll think it has to do with the money.
T he rug shop is on Kinkerstraat, sandwiched between a bra shop and an
optiek
,
hardly a neighborhood for upscale rugs, but then again, looking around the narrow shop, Knox realizes the rugs are more Pottery Barn than Heriz.
Gerhardt Kreiger is smoking in the back with the floor manager. Kreiger looks like a history professor in a tweed sport coat and black turtleneck. The manager needs to gain more than a few pounds. Knox searches the stock for anything of quality.
“You’re wasting my time, Gerhardt.” Knox turns for the door.
“Easy!” Kreiger has all the panache of a Buick salesman. “Not these! Wait, my friend.” Gerhardt hasn’t had a friend since 1978. He sidles up to Knox. “This is our gallery, nothing more. Patience, please.”
It isn’t going the way Knox had hoped. He’d wanted a tour of the facility and says so. “As much as I appreciate you, Gerhardt, I’d hoped to talk directly with the seller.”
“For obvious reasons, my friend, this is impossible.”
Knox whispers, “For this much cash, nothing is impossible.”
“You wanted samples. I have brought you samples. Third stack, rugs two through five.” He points, his fingertip yellowed by years of cigarettes.
Gerhardt is being far too smart about this. Knox had hoped for incompetence.
Knox peels back the top rug from the waist-high stack of rugs. It’s like looking at high-def television: an eye-popping clarity with wonderful dye-lot imperfections and gorgeous symmetry to the traditional design. Knox has run himself through a crash course and he’s shocked by the quality. He’d expected something passable; he’s looking at floor and wall art. He realizes Gerhardt had no idea of a price range when they’d spoken earlier. These have five to ten times the value Knox had expected.
“Remarkable work,” he says, moving slowly back and forth among the five samples.
“It is,” says the store manager, trying to worm his way into the
“My money? The money Eve—?” Knox says, though he can’t finish the sentence, can’t hear himself say it.
“If we find the money—
when
we find the money—we will find Evelyn Ritter along with it,” Grace says imperiously.
Dulwich hunches his shoulders. “It was a bum deal.”
“It was my deal. Is my deal.”
“What are friends for?”
Grace explains, “It was the change. The fifty-four cents. It’s all in the details. We’re having fun, John. Don’t spoil our fun.”
“And don’t talk to me about returning favors,” says the man whose life Knox saved—
twice
.
“Forty-seven thousand?”
“I do not have the money, but I know where to find it. I can determine how it got there—that is the key. Getting it back . . . That is not of primary importance at the moment. First, we find it. We find it all.”
“Don’t look so surprised,” Dulwich says.
But Knox is surprised. Flattered. Impressed. Guilt-ridden that they’ve taken the time to pursue his loss when it has nothing to do with Rutherford Risk.
“Does Primer know?” Knox asks.
“Hardly,” says Dulwich.
“But you’re on his payroll. His clock.” He looks over at Grace. “His gear.”
“Field testing the gear is critical,” she says.
“There are more than eight hours in a day,” says Dulwich.
The comment is laughable, though Knox doesn’t laugh. Dulwich lives his job—fourteen-to-eighteen-hour days. He doesn’t have time to tie his own shoes—he wears Top-Siders.
“Thank you.” Knox wishes he’d saved some of the Scotch. He thinks about suggesting a trip to the hotel bar, drinks on him, but knows that’s absurd. The three of them can’t be seen together.
“Thank us when you have her head on a stick,” Dulwich says.
“And the funds back in your account,” Grace says, still rocking.
She looks like a scared little girl. Knox considers reaching out to comfort her, but the timing is wrong; she’ll think it has to do with the money.
T he rug shop is on Kinkerstraat, sandwiched between a bra shop and an
optiek
,
hardly a neighborhood for upscale rugs, but then again, looking around the narrow shop, Knox realizes the rugs are more Pottery Barn than Heriz.
Gerhardt Kreiger is smoking in the back with the floor manager. Kreiger looks like a history professor in a tweed sport coat and black turtleneck. The manager needs to gain more than a few pounds. Knox searches the stock for anything of quality.
“You’re wasting my time, Gerhardt.” Knox turns for the door.
“Easy!” Kreiger has all the panache of a Buick salesman. “Not these! Wait, my friend.” Gerhardt hasn’t had a friend since 1978. He sidles up to Knox. “This is our gallery, nothing more. Patience, please.”
It isn’t going the way Knox had hoped. He’d wanted a tour of the facility and says so. “As much as I appreciate you, Gerhardt, I’d hoped to talk directly with the seller.”
“For obvious reasons, my friend, this is impossible.”
Knox whispers, “For this much cash, nothing is impossible.”
“You wanted samples. I have brought you samples. Third stack, rugs two through five.” He points, his fingertip yellowed by years of cigarettes.
Gerhardt is being far too smart about this. Knox had hoped for incompetence.
Knox peels back the top rug from the waist-high stack of rugs. It’s like looking at high-def television: an eye-popping clarity with wonderful dye-lot imperfections and gorgeous symmetry to the traditional design. Knox has run himself through a crash course and he’s shocked by the quality. He’d expected something passable; he’s looking at floor and wall art. He realizes Gerhardt had no idea of a price range when they’d spoken earlier. These have five to ten times the value Knox had expected.
“Remarkable work,” he says, moving slowly back and forth among the five samples.
“It is,” says the store manager, trying to worm his way into the
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